


At the Emperor’s Command

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Blow Jobs, Lap Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mild D/s, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M, gentle biting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: Thara doesn’t want to open his eyes. He fears it might all be a dream.





	At the Emperor’s Command

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farevenasdecidedtouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/gifts).



> Enjoy, farevenasdecidedtouse. ;)

“Open thine eyes and look,” his emperor commands in a whisper.

Thara doesn’t want to open his eyes, or to tilt his head forward from where it comfortably rests upon Edrehasivar’s naked breast. He fears it might all be a dream, borne of fever or, somehow, of papaverine: Edrehasivar’s warm lips and tongue caressing Thara’s quivering right ear, the edges of his long fingernails skimming the crowns of Thara’s aching nipples, his thighs hot and solid beneath Thara’s, his cock piercing Thara to the root, Thara’s own cock in the hot, wet, and skillful embrasure of Mer Aisava’s mouth.

Obedience has never been Thara’s strong suit. But open his eyes he does, because he is not his own man tonight. It is the culmination of many late nights working in tandem on matters of governance that involve Witness testimony, the path thereto eased by perhaps one more cup of sorcho than was wise, that Thara has laid himself in their hands like an offering upon an altar. It is a dalliance of great risk, and not even Edrehasivar’s canny secretary knows this as viscerally — as painfully — as does Thara. But, once Thara had recovered from his initial shock, Mer Aisava allayed his fears with the emphatic promise that they who serve Edrehasivar at his most vulnerable moments have given him their utmost loyalty.

Thara, who has broken bread with assassins for his emperor, understands this devotion deep in his blood; only his oath to Ulis runs deeper. And if so devout and so compassionate a man has formed a marneise bond with another, that bond anchored in evident, deep mutual respect... perhaps, Thara thinks, there is more daylight than he had ever hoped for between the laws of men and the laws of gods.

For the moment, he resolves to think on this no more.

It is no difficult resolution, given the sight before him: the seldom-credited, oft-maligned power behind the throne, now kneeling at Thara’s and Edrehasivar’s feet. His cheekbones and ears are visibly shaded peony even in the half-light of the flickering hearth flames, his cheeks hollowed deeply, his lips stretched and shining around the base of Thara’s shaft. One kidskin-soft palm lies gently upon the side of Thara’s thigh, Mer Aisava taking care not to dig his immaculate nails into its flesh, while the other hand glides languidly up and down the length of the Imperial Secretary’s own cock. It is a much darker shade of pink than his face and ears, and clear seed runs in abundance from its silky-looking tip. Thara, who has not tasted another man since Evru died, longs to lap up every drop.

Edrehasivar shifts in his armchair, a broad-seated affair upholstered in grey watered silk. The angle is imperfect, as it cannot but be with Thara in his lap, but Thara feels the jolt deep inside him and gasps. He is already full, too full, his emperor’s cock pinning him fast to the blurry boundary between pain and pleasure. But without thought he grinds down and forward, the smooth-shaven tops of Edrehasivar’s thighs slippery under the backs of his own with sweat. He groans at the additional stretch, terrifying and enrapturing — and groans again, this time in protest, as Mer Aisava pulls off him momentarily.

“Is he close, Mer Aisava?” Edrehasivar inquires with a mild solicitousness, the incongruity of which is oddly exciting. Thara thinks he must have signaled to Mer Aisava.

The Imperial Secretary’s hand slides, gentle and careful, over to the inside of Thara’s thigh, then downward to cup his stones where they have drawn up against his body. Thara whimpers softly. “Quite close, Serenity,” Mer Aisava says, and though his voice is shot through with breath his tone is likewise mundane. “Do you wish for us to keep him poised on the edge for a while?”

“ _No._ Please,” Thara blurts.

He feels a decisive nip at the edge of his ear. It is barely painful, it is not even strong enough to leave a mark, but it is a warning. “Didst agree to let us do as we will with thee tonight,” Edrehasivar reminds him in the plural.

The words slip from him, small and broken of will: “Forgive me, Serenity.”

“Mer Aisava,” the emperor continues mildly, “we pray you not hasten his peak unduly, but there is no need to torment him, either. Let him spend as he will.”

“Serenity,” Mer Aisava says obligingly, then takes Thara into his mouth again.

Thara’s eyes fall shut once more. He lets himself be borne along on the rush of sensation, the unbearably exquisite rhythms of the Imperial Secretary’s attentions, the counterrhythm Edrehasivar falls into with the first rise of his hips. Thara rises, too, as the emperor — a half-starved wraith no longer, well shaped by hours on horseback and on the fencing court — lifts him an inch or two above his own lap to thrust into him with greater and greater precision and force. Mer Aisava can no longer sheathe all of Thara within his throat, but his lips and tongue never cease their movements, finding every vulnerable spot on and beneath the head and playing them with the skill of a lutist.

The sensation waxes, sharpens, reaches a peak — and Thara shudders and makes humiliating incoherent noises as the climax breaks over him in scalding waves. He opens his eyes again and sees that Mer Aisava does not neglect to swallow a solitary drop of his seed, licking as neatly as a cat at cream, and he shudders again with hypersensitivity and a weak pang of desire. It is the same moment at which Edrehasivar moans and fairly bounces Thara on his lap as he too spends. His own incoherent utterance draws itself out into a groan of completion. A warm wetness pools inside Thara. He can feel the tremors in the muscles of the emperor’s belly and limbs, as well as the deep release of his breath that follows.

Mer Aisava opens his eyes; they are startlingly dark. “Serenity,” he says, “may we please finish in our hand?”

“Serenity,” Thara begins, so hoarse that the word sounds alien to his ears. “May I —”

“No,” the emperor says, quietly but firmly. “Be still and at ease, and watch him.”

It feels wrong to him, that he cannot give pleasure as he has received it, but his emperor has spoken; and it is no great burden to relax into his arms and let him stroke Thara’s hair as they watch Mer Aisava lose himself in the touch of his own hand. He is exceptionally pretty, and the way his lips part and his eyes hood reminds Thara of devotional paintings in othasmeires, worshippers in the ecstatic embraces of the gods who chose them. He is as discreet in the pursuit of his climax as he is in the discharge of his duties; other than his quiet panting he is silent until he is very, very close. Thara watches him tip backward over the edge of the precipice, uttering a sound so intimate and unguarded that Thara blushes to hear it. His face and ears are now nearly as dark as his cock as it spasms a final time in his grip and his seed flows freely over the back of his hand. The breath rushes out of him, and he sags on his knees.

They are all silent for a long moment. Mer Aisava seems to come back to himself more easily and naturally than Thara and possibly Edrehasivar did. He rises, takes up the handkerchief that he had set on a nearby table, and attends to his hand and loins. “Shall we summon the edocharei, Serenity?” he asks, his voice roughened.

“Please, Mer Aisava. And have them attend to Mer Celehar first.”

“Serenity,” Thara says, startled.

“We will brook no argument from thee,” the emperor says in his tone of velvet-bound iron. “Thou must not linger overlong in the Alcethmeret, lest rumors be engendered, whereas there is no such worry for either Mer Aisava or ourself. But nor canst thou leave it in thy current condition.” Again, it does not feel meet, but Thara sees no flaw in this reasoning.

He subsides in Edrehasivar’s embrace until the trio of smiling and indulgent edocharei appears, bearing a small steaming tub and an armload of plush towels. The water smells of night-scented stockflower, and the young men’s patter is hushed and discreet as suits the mood. If they do not attend to Thara as diligently as they do their emperor, he would not know, and of a certainty he would not dream of complaining of it. Once the perfumed water and the suds upon it have cleansed him, he lets the edocharei gently rub him dry, then accepts their help with drawing his clothes and shoes on again and rebraiding his queue.

Not long afterward Thara strides through the halls of the Untheileneise Court, chill and deserted at this last hour before Ulis cedes the sky to Anmura. He carries away with him the scent of the bath, a delicious soreness, and a tingle upon his lips from his emperor’s possessive farewell kiss — and the softer but equally probing one of his emperor’s secretary.


End file.
